"If I don't leave now, I might end up making love to you again."

He donned his coat and descended into the snowy outdoors. Waylen drove himself. An hour later, a black Land Rover came to a halt in front of a dimly lit rental building. Exiting the vehicle, he closed the door behind him.

A man in his early thirties approached Waylen. The man had the air of a detective about him. He reported in a hushed tone, "Mr. Fowler, when I arrived, the man was already dead. He was strangled with a rope. The scene... You will know when you see it."

Waylen extracted a cigarette from his case, offering one to the detective as well.

Both men smoked as they entered the old building one after the other. They stood before Room 302.

The door creaked open, revealing a young man sprawled lifeless on a worn -out bed.

The young man was partially undressed. Strangulation marks marred his neck, indicating his demise.

Speaking in hushed tones, the detective shared.

“He's been dead for less than two hours. He engaged in vigorous sexual activity before his death."

Waylen donned gloves, retrieving a work ID from the old desk. The deceased was 24 years old and an electrician by profession.

Surveying the room, Waylen formed a conjecture about the assailant's identity

He also surmised that the evidence of bodily fluids would have been meticulously cleaned... Aline had killed the young man to safeguard a secret.

Next to the bed lay $100, 000.

“Take these for investigation by Mr. Winston, Also, look into the deceased's background and provide his family with $500, 000 for relocation. Keep the source of the money anonymous."

The detective was perplexed. Understanding wasn't required from him...

Waylen exited the stifling room quietly, the young man's lifeless visage etched into his mind.

Standing amidst the falling snow, he smoked half a pack of cigarettes. The scent of death lingered, unshakeable.

It wasn't until he returned home, the villa's warm lights aglow, that he began to feel a sense of relief...

Beneath the shroud of night, the villa rested in profound tranquility.

Waylen shed his coat and ascended the staircase with measured steps. All the household staff had succumbed to slumber, leaving only a solitary night lamp to break the darkness.

In the bedroom on the second floor's eastern wing, he pushed the door ajar, greeted by a gentle, inviting yellow glow.

Rena hadn't retired for the night yet. Wrapped in a cozy pajama, she nestled against the sofa engrossed in reading a script.